A few weeks ago, I got the call: she’s ready, stop taking the pill.
So being the committed person that I am, I did as I was told and went for the crucial scan to see if I had anything resembling an ovarian cyst. All was clear and then the fun began.
This type of fun came in the form of syringes, needles and vials. And I was taught how to do the injections on my own and mix the stuff together and felt all medical and pleased with myself. Then the hormones kicked in and I spent two weeks in an oestrogen induced euphoria.
Yup, I felt fantastic. My energy was off the charts. My senses were heightened. Men everywhere did double takes as I walked past. Sadly, none of them walked into walls. That would have been funny.
And then my aspiration date was determined. I started calling it that too, it’s so much nicer than saying ‘harvest’ or ‘collection’. I arranged with a close friend to do my driving (to reinforce how serious I was about everything, I let him drive my car for the day – no one touches my car except for me).
And so I was admitted to the ward. And my friend went to work, leaving me alone with my thoughts and rising panic. The nurses probably thought he was my boyfriend, and a complete asshole for abandoning me. He’s not either of those, but if I do this again, he’s holding my hand until I go in.
I have never had any medical procedures before. Taking my tonsils out does not count, my folks were with me and I was nine. When you’re nine you don’t know about what could go wrong. When you’re 25, no one promises you ice-cream when you wake up. But they do bring you weak coffee and it’s heaven.
So there I was, lying in the hospital gown (very unflattering) on pink sheets, staring at the olive green curtains. I lost interest in the nauseating colour scheme very quickly and once again settled into fretting and thinking. I wanted to run. But I didn’t feel like wrestling with nurses while trying to keep my gown on. No, it didn’t occur to me to get dressed first.
I had just wanted to do something nice for someone. Then it struck me that I was really doing it and that there was a chance I would have a child. All of a sudden it was very serious. And then I got caught up in thinking about nature versus nurture and my potential offspring.
Would the kid like horses? Would the parents be able to handle a very moody teenager? Would my mannerisms somehow pass on? Would the child look like me? Will the kid one day grow up and have children, continuing my genes? I will never have answers to any of these questions. Unless 18 years from now someone knocks on my door and says “Hi mom!” And how would I react to that? Was there a chance of this happening? I hadn’t asked.
Eventually, I begged for a sedative because I was about to tell them “forget it, sorry for wasting your time and the money and hormones you all pumped in to me, but I just want to go home”. They did and I can’t remember anything from then until the time I woke up.
That was about two weeks ago. After several days of discomfort and mild depression, things seem to be getting back to normal. Since then I’ve been told that the transfer of my eggs went well and I can call soon to find out if it worked. I still want it to. With everything in me.
My conclusion is this: I did something really special for a stranger and she is grateful. And while she may fall pregnant and have a child with my genes, it is her child. My role in this entire thing is actually so small. It only seemed so big because of what I put my body and, more recently, my mind through.
And she wants to have a child more than anything else in the entire world. So if I could make someone’s dream come true, it’s okay. And I am proud of what I did.
So good luck, anonymous recipient. You are in my thoughts.